Sacred Heart
by sorrow and bleus
Summary: Violet is a Catholic schoolgirl who often sneaks out to make shady connections with her friends, the Brooklyn & Manhattan newsies. But when a dark change comes over Violet and her boys, she has to battle with blood and bruises to regain her heart.
1. Chapter 1

**~Author's Note: **

**Hey, everyone. ****This is my second Newsies fanfiction, and it's going to be a lot different than my first one, Rage, which was sort of funny and full of teenage angst & romance. ****This one is darker and isn't really centered around the romance, although there will be some. **

**My first chapter is kinda long, so I'm sorry about that. I got a little carried away.**

**Please R&R! I love you all.**

**lovelovelove, Julianna.~**

November 15 1904

It is a cold morning in Manhattan, and the blackish smog from the factories that fills the sky adds to the dark and icy closed-in feeling that hangs in the air.

Violet Lourdes is making her slow ascent up the marble stairs of the brownstone building that is The Convent of the Sacred Heart. Her face is pale and her coat collar is upturned against it to shield her from the windy air.

She glances behind her in hopefulness but turns again in disappointment and opens the heavy oak door to enter Sacred Heart.

Immediately after she shuts it behind her, a gust of warm air is blown in her face and she thankfully continues walking down the hall. When she reaches the Sitting Room, a fire is crackling in the hearth, its light splashing gaily on the plushy chairs that surround the fireplace.

Out of one of these chairs springs Clementine Le Torneau. "Did you get it?" she asks immediately.

Violet quiets her by putting a finger to her lips. Clementine clamps a hand over her mouth and whispers, "Sorry."

Violet grins. "Yes, I got it."

"Can we see?" asks Georgia Bodine, leaping from her armchair and joining Clementine where she stands expectantly in front of Violet.

Violet looks around shiftily before quickly pulling the brown paper bag from her coat. She unfolds the paper and shakes the bag open to reveal what's inside. Smiling broadly, her friends' eyes go wide in amazement.

"Mother of Mary," Georgia swears. "What did you have to do for _this_?"

Violet smirks rebelliously. "I do what I gotta do, sweets," she says in a trashy-sounding New York accent, a far cry from her usual polished speech.

Clementine and Georgia giggle appreciatively as Violet tucks it back into her coat. "I expect you'll give us the details later, eh, Vi?" asks Clementine.

Violet is just about to answer her when ringing footsteps coming from the hall fill the circular room. Sister Deidre walks in.

"Come on, girls," she snaps. "Morning Mass has almost begun, and you know well what happens to those who aren't punctual."

"Yes, Sister," they answer in unison, each hanging up their coat on the rack before making the sign of the cross and exiting through the tall door at the head of the Sitting Room.

They walk in silence down the empty corridor. When they reach the Chapel, Sister Deidre on their heels, they funnel into the grand building respectfully. When they reach their pew they each drop down to one knee, a sign of respect for the altar, and make the sign of the cross again before standing and filing neatly into the pew.

When they take their seats, each of them sweeps her skirt underneath her so that it sits neatly and doesn't fan out.

Violet crosses her legs and places her hands in her lap, staring down at the dark skirt she wears and its contrast with the starched white shirt she has buttoned up to the top, and the dark-colored sweater on top of it.

A draft comes into the elaborately decorated Chapel and Violet shivers as she looks around at the ancient, dark wooden fixtures and ornate jeweled fittings. There is no heat in the Chapel.

Georgia wraps her arms around herself, hoping for warmth, as the Mass begins. Clementine pulls her elbows close and tucks them into her sides. Violet simply shivers, digs her fingernails into the soft skin of her palm, and thinks about the morning so far.

_Forgive me, Lord, for I have sinned_, she thinks and smiles to herself.

At some point a few moments later, the Sisters stand and begin the gathering song. We are instructed to turn to _Holy God, We Praise Thy Name._

"Holy God, we praise Thy Name," drone the people in the Church. "Lord of all, we bow before Thee!"

An ethereal sound fills the Chapel as the dark sound of singing bounces off of the ceiling and walls. Violet, Clementine, and Georgia are not so much singing as they are mumbling, but their favorite seats in the back pew prevent them from being chastised for this.

Georgia sighs. Clementine rolls her eyes back in her head. Violet wishes she was out on the streets again, instead of here.

Finally, the priest, deacon, and altar servers enter the Chapel. The priest arrives at the altar and makes the sign of the Cross.

"In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit," he says in a deep monotonous voice.

"Amen," comes the voice of the people, a dark and thick sound.

After Mass, Violet, Georgia, and Clementine must go to their first class, Choral Music. They all dread going; their teacher is the dreaded Sister Melania. Sister Melania is an ancient old woman with a pinched voice, stiff stature, and unpleasant demeanor.

As Clementine, Georgia, and Violet drag their feet all the way to the Chamber Hall for Choral Music, a gust of wind passes over the rooftops of New York City, and somewhere below them, the small huddled figure of Spot Conlon moves…

Kid Blink is peddling his newspapers like it is any normal day. And in fact, for him, it is a normal day. How in the world could he know that somewhere inside the marble halls of Sacred Heart, a slow transformation is taking place inside the body of his half-sister, Violet Lourdes?

"Huge earthquake," he calls to the unpleasant-looking man standing a few feet away. "Hundreds dead. Government devastated."

The man looks like he may take interest and Blink walks over to him, grinning genuinely at him. "One bit, sir," he says politely.

The man nods, pursing his teeth and pulls a coin from his pocket, tossing it to Kid Blink and accepting the paper as he hands it to him. The man promptly opens the paper and, after reading the contents, looks up in rage.

He starts toward Blink, who is already on his quick way away, darting through the crowds and onto the even more crowded opposite side of the street.

He smiles to himself as he walks on jauntily. He is having a good day. He has sold a lot of papers. It's only halfway through the morning and he only has twenty papes left.

When he is finished a few hours later, he retires to his favorite pub, The New Prayer. It's the one just a few short stumbles away from the Lodging House. The pub is filled with smoky air, floosy women, and bartenders who don't care how old you are as long as you tip well.

And with the way the day has gone, he will certainly be able to tip well. He whistles and jangles the change in his pockets as the walks the familiar route to The New Prayer.

Violet yawns and rests her head on her hand, letting her black hair fall between her fingers.

"_Absolution_," continues Sister Mary Clarence. "is part of the Sacrament of Penance. It takes place when a priest declares that your sins have been atoned for. Take note that only a member of the clergy can declare absolution. And this is because?"

Shay Bourne raises her hand. "Because the clergy are divinely appointed."

"That is correct," says Sister Mary Clarence. "Very well, Miss Bourne."

Violet tries to roll her eyes without attracting the Sister's attention. Not only is Violet sleepy, she is also very irritable, and doesn't care to deal with the incessant know-it-all-ness of Shay Bourne.

"Now," continues Sister. "Let us recite the Act of Contrition, in ordinance with the Sacrament of Penance."

Violet and Georgia sigh and Clementine looks around in boredom.

"Oh my God, I am sorry for my sins," chants the class. Their voices echo around the tall stone ceilings. "In choosing to sin and failing to do good, I have sinned against You and Your Church…"

After the prayer, Violet slips back into her usual mid-morning stupor. "Miss Lourdes? Are you paying full attention, pray tell?" Sister Mary Clarence directs at her a few moments later.

Violet is shaken from her daydream. "Yes, Sister."

"Then will you please answer my question, Miss Lourdes?" Sister Mary Clarence has a very agitating habit of repeating names constantly.

"May I ask you to repeat it, Sister?" asks Violet, slightly mocking the Sister.

Sister Mary Clarence closes her eyes in annoyance. "You may be excused to the hall, madam," she says angrily through clenched teeth.

Violet didn't need telling twice. Once in the hall, she immediately walked back to the dormitories. She didn't have a lot of time but she knew what she had to do. Having been in Sister Mary Clarence's classes before, she was aware of the fact that she wouldn't be invited back into the classroom before class ended because of her bad behavior.

She also knew that Sister Mary Clarence had it out for her, but wouldn't report her to the Headmistress. She just wanted to cause as much turmoil as possible, and used Violet to do just this.

Walking through the thick red velvet curtain that separated the Sitting Room from the Upper School Dormitories, Violet quickly walked over to her small bed and reached under the mattress for the small bag that she'd stowed there during the hall time between Mass and First Classes.

She opened it with careful fingers, sliding the contents out onto her palm. She counted it again.

10, 20, 20, 40. It was all still there, all her hush money and a little extra besides for "favors." Spot Conlon may have more than half a brain, but he was more than a little paranoid.

It wasn't Violet's place to wonder why this was, but she did anyway, and asked him when she thought that the answer might slip out. Her cunning was often in vain, however, because Conlon indeed had more than half of a brain.

She sighed and walked over to the frosted window at the end of the row of beds. The wind was blowing hard now, and the small trees were almost bent over double in the gustiness. Unlocking the window with a little elbow grease, Violet slid the glass open and pushed herself onto the ledge.

She swung her feet out lithely and jumped smoothly to the ground.

It was precisely 10:00 a.m.; Violet was quite punctual and so was Leon Pagan. Leon was one of Spot's chums, a muscular blonde boy with a sweet demeanor and limited amount of brain cells.

But, you couldn't help but like Leon; he had a sort of seductive power of her his prey—er, friends.

Violet leaned up against the building and braced her arms around her because of the cold.

Finally, a mere five minutes later that felt exponentially longer to Violet, Leon arrived. He was walking with Spot and another of their minions, Vince.

"Hey, there, Vi," said Spot in his typical Brooklyn twang, an arrogant smile on his face.

He sauntered over to Violet and took her by the waist, kissing her once on each cheek.

"Spot," she said shortly, trying to be polite but cold.

The others greeted her in the same manor. This was where she got annoyed with the boys: they didn't know the difference between a one-night stand for money and daytime romance. Boys. So assumptive.

"So," says Spot smoothly. "We gots a favor to ask."

"Just say it," Violet replies. "I haven't got a lot of time."

"Skipping class again?" he asks and winks. She sends him a winning smile, hoping that this will get him in a good mood. "Look. This one ain't gonna be easy."

"When have you ever known me to quit when things got hard?"

"That can be taken multiple ways," he says. "But I'll just choose to interpret it _correctly._"

"You know, you really shouldn't be a newsboy. You're a thousand times too smart," Violet compliments him. "No offense," she says to Leon and Vince. They nod appreciatively.

"Well, thank you," he says diplomatically, and Violet tries not to laugh. He falls for it every time.

She bites her lip and looks up to meet Leon's gaze. He smirks at her and his eyes twinkle. Leon has very observant eyes, dark brown and almost red in color, at first glance they are reminiscent of puddles of dried blood.

"Anyways," continues Spot. "I need some score. My supply's gettin' pretty low and, ah." He hikes a thumb at the other two. "You know how they get."

Violet snorts, looking at them. "I know how _you_ get, Spot."

He takes a step forward so that he is closer to her. He places a hand on her chest. "What's that supposed to mean?" he asks.

"Oh, nothing," she whispers seductively into his ear, before turning and sashaying back through the window. "Meet you tomorrow? Same time, same place?"

"Yeah," he murmurs, looking slightly crestfallen. Leon and Vince snigger and he punches both of them swiftly on the arm before turning to leave.

Violet's day passes in a slow haze. When it is finally over, her, Clementine, and Georgia ascend up the stairs slowly to the dormitories. When they finally reach them, Clementine bounces happily onto her bed, Georgia sprawls on hers and Violet lays back on hers, closing her eyes briefly.

"Oh," says Clementine. "You never told us about this morning, Vi."

"Yeah," concurs Georgia. "We need to know what happened."

Violet grins proudly. "Nothing unusual. Got some score. The pure stuff, and real cheap. Used a certain method of, ah, _bargaining_." The others giggle naughtily. "So I basically got back my money's worth. Good thing I paid attention all those years in Arithmatic."

The others grimace at the thought of the tedious years of required math.

"Are you going to share with us?" ask Georgia.

"Wish I could, Geo, girl," says Violet sadly. "But I have to redistribute. Spot Conlon asked me to get some."

Clementine grins. "So you're going to tell him all the trouble you went through to get it, eh?"

"That's right," smiles Violet. "And I know he'll pay me extra for it. The boy's a sucker. More than half a brain, my—"

Just then Shay Bourne walks in with her posse: Rhoda, Marguerite, Dovie, and Nora.

Shay flicks her silky blonde hair behind her and gives the three sprawled on their beds a dirty look.

"Come on," she says to the girls behind her. "Let's go to the washroom. It's almost time for supper."

They exit, and walk down to the marble washroom, with its fine gold-leaf sinks and porcelain tubs.

At their exit, Violet seizes her chance to get out for the evening. "Irving Hall anyone?" she asks and the others stand in excitement. They quickly scale out of the window with ease, positioning it so that it isn't possible to tell that it's open, but they can still get through on their way back.

Their feet hit the familiar dirty Manhattan sidewalk and Violet feels once again at home as she breathes in the dirty and cold New York City air and surveys the dangerous and dark street corners.

Clementine, who has always been anxious, looks around nervously, wishing that they were back in their dormitories, warm and comfortable, instead of on the worrisome streets going to Irving Hall, sure to be loud and packed with perverts.

Georgia, with her head in the clouds, is slightly annoyed at the fact that they are going to Irving Hall _again_, and wishes that they could go somewhere new for once. Somewhere, maybe, that Violet's brother might be. She slowly melts away as she thinks of him.

Back at the Convent, Shay Bourne and her minions have just walked back into the dormitory to find it mysteriously empty. Nora and Marguerite whip their amber-haired heads through the doorway to the Sitting Room and look for Violet. But they are nowhere to be found.

As Georgia giggles hoarsely at something that Clementine and Violet are saying, Shay narrows her eyes and sighs exasperatedly.

In Brooklyn, Spot sits down on the steps outside the Brooklyn Newsboys Lodging House and cradles his clammy head in his hands. He needs a fix, and fast.

At the New Prayer, Kid Blink downs his fourth beer of the evening alone, enjoying its sparkling descent into his stomach. He sighs happily and leans back in his chair.

Overhead, they are all being watched, carefully, patiently.

**~Another Author's Note:**

**The Convent of the Sacred Heart is an actual school in Manhattan. It was founded in 1881 as a convent (where girls become nuns) but in my story, which takes place in 1904, it's just a Catholic girls' boarding school and they aren't learning to become nuns. Sacred Heart is still open today, and it is a very prestigious (and expensive) Catholic school in NYC. One of its graduates is Lady GaGa. For more information, go to . **

**lovelovelove.**


	2. Chapter 2

November 16 1904

Violet wakes up tired, pale, and cold. She shivers beneath the blankets and brings her knees up to her chest to keep warm. She starts biting on one of her fingernails, a bad habit that she has tried to break.

Her black hair lays in tangles around her neck and collar and she breathes in the scent of her pillow. As she closes her eyes again to drift off to sleep before she has to get up, she remembers the night before.

Violet, Georgia, and Clementine made their way down to Irving Hall under the cover of the night. When they reached the bright and noisy building, they immediately spotted their old friends, Jack Kelly, David Jacobs, Racetrack Higgins, and Mush Meyers.

Kid Blink was nowhere in sight. Violet worried about this briefly but dismissed it. He was probably drinking again. Silently she cursed her brother.

They sauntered over to where Jack, David, Race, and Mush stood. Violet poked Jack in the ribs to get his attention. When he looked down and saw her, his face broke into a smile, and he reached out an arm to hug her.

"Where you been?" he asked her, after pulling her into his warm arms.

"Around," she said, inhaling the scent of his shirt before pulling away painfully. "We haven't had much of a chance to get out lately. The nuns have been really suspicious."

Jack rolls his eyes and smiles. "You should drop out."

Violet snorts. "Yeah, right," she says. "My parents would only murder me."

Violet looks at her friends. Georgia and Clementine are talking to the others, but Violet has Jack all to herself, and that is just the way she likes it.

He has an infectious personality, and Violet has always wanted to be near him. He's six years older than her, but she can remember even when she was really young wanting to be around Jack.

On school holidays, when she was home, she would struggle out of her mother's firm grasp and walk all the way to Manhattan, her hair specially braided, and her shoes shined, to see Jack.

He was always happy, and willing, to see her, even when he was busy. He'd always lay aside his papers, take her hand in his, and walk around with her instead.

She didn't know how it started out that she wanted to see more of his smile, or that she liked the swagger in his step, or that she couldn't wait to hear the New York lilt in his voice.

But somewhere, between all their little inside jokes, and the days that they spent together, and the lunches that he always insisted on paying for even though she was from one of the richest families in town, somewhere, between all that, Violet had fallen in love with Jack.

Unfortunately, story book endings don't happen in real life, and if they do, it's rare. Jack Kelly saw Violet as a little sister, and forever ingrained in his mind is the little girl with pigtail braids, dirty fingernails, and shoe polish all over her saddle shoes because at seven years old, it's damn hard to shine your shoes.

Even though Violet eventually had to outgrow her saddle shoes, and pigtail braids, and moved on to more sophisticated and older styles, Jack couldn't see past the second-grader that he used to know, and that is the Violet that he sees every time they meet.

"Run away then," Jack said, his smile faltering. "Come to Santa Fe." He took a swig out of the bottle he was holding. "Me and Sarah could adopt you."

Violet's nostrils flared involuntarily. She hated Sarah. "You have to be married to adopt, buck."

Jack was taking another drink, but at this he choked on the beverage and coughed loudly.

Violet pounded him on the back. "Sorry," she said when he could breathe again.

He started to laugh. It started out as a little chuckle in the bottom of his stomach, the best kind, but turned into an contagious and hearty, fully-blown laughter.

Violet laughed too, her tinkling voice joining his baritone.

Soon, though, Jack was distracted by the cooing voice of that red-headed showstopper, Medda. Violet despised Medda, but told no one. In fact, Medda had always been charitable to Violet, Georgia, and Clementine.

For the kind of woman that she was, the kind that sold herself to the crowd every evening, she was also very intuitive. She knew the emotions of young girls, having been one herself and educated a few after that. But even better than girls, Medda knew men. And she knew Jack Kelly.

Medda knew, in her heart, that there was a special place in Jack reserved only for Violet. She knew however, that Jack's love for Violet was only that of an older brother. A protective older brother.

Though Medda was quite fond of Jack and his friends, his over-protectiveness toward Violet angered her. She didn't think that Jack realized what he was doing, playing the hero, was actually driving Violet crazy with desires, but still. The fact that he could do this to her and not realize it just proved why she hadn't kissed a man twice in at least a decade.

_She's at least six hundred years old_, thinks Georgia as Medda twirls around onstage, kicking her legs up gaily. _Maybe seven._

Violet's lip curls as Medda breaks into her newest dance. Violet and her friends, and Jack and his, are standing atop the balcony overlooking the stage. They have a perfect view of Medda's antics and gallivanting.

Clementine rolls her eyes in Violet's direction and Violet twitches her head toward the stairs, motioning for Clementine to follow her as she walks toward the stairwell. Violet considers telling Jack that she will be back in a moment, but she decides against it. They walk away through the chattering people and Jack doesn't turn around once.

There is no way for them to hear each other out here, what with the obnoxiously loud people and Medda's ridiculous singing, but once they are in the enclose staircase, they can easily carry on a conversation.

"I've never been up here before," mutters Clementine.

"Neither have I," says Violet. "What do you think's up there?"

"No idea," Clementine says. "Care to find out?" She giggles and offers Violet her arm.

Violet links arms with her and the two of them head jauntily up the stairs.

"To tea!" they say in unison. It is their old joke.

When they reach the top of the stairs, they realize that on their right is the performers' quarters, and to their left is the office of Irving Hall, which is dark and probably closed for the evening.

The gold-painted hallway to their right is lined with doors of pink, purple, and blue. The performers' names are painted on them, and the carpet is stained and threadbare on top of the beaten wood floor.

Violet and Clementine's clothes make a soft _hush, hush_ as they walk toward the end of the hall in silence. They are still linking arms and both are holding back grins from the other; espionage is their favorite pastime.

"Georgie probably wants to know where we are," whispers Clementine.

Violet shrugs. "Oh well."

When they reach Medda's door, they look at each other as if calculating whether or not they should enter. Finally, Violet takes a step forward. She pushes the door open cautiously.

When they peer inside, they are shocked by the explosion of sickening pink. It's everywhere; on the walls, the carpet, the clothes that are scattered hither and thither.

"Oh, Mother of God," Clementine breaths in disgust. "What was she smoking?"

"Who knows," mutters Violet, taking another cautious step forward. She walks over to the dressing table, a wooden desk painted pink and laden with hundreds of small bottles, compacts, and tubes.

There are hair serums, cosmetics, jewelry boxes…Violet opens one of them, a glitzy one bedazzled with rubies, and takes a look inside. She is shocked to find that it is filled to the brim with sparklingly white powder.

Violet grins at Clementine. "Well, who would've known?" she says delightedly. "Our own Medda, a drug fiend."

Clementine comes over to the table and peers over Violet's shoulder. "I'll be damned," she whispers.

"Finders, keepers," Violet trills and Clementine looks at her, shocked.

"You're taking it?"

"Of course I am. I can't just leave this laying around, can I?" Clementine doesn't look convinced, so Violet continues. "Spot's been hankering for a fix. Now I don't have to spend my money, I get reimbursed by him, and Medda loses her stash. It's what we call a 'win-win-lose.'"

Clementine laughs, a mischievous glint in her eyes. Violet look around the room with my hands on my hips. "We just need something to carry it with."

Her eyes fall on a small green velvet bag with a cinch tie. It's small enough to fit in her pocket and it's big enough for all the goods. Violet scoops up some of the precious powder and pours it carefully into the bag.

When it's all inside, a good fit, Violet takes it and puts it down her shirt. She tucks it carefully into her brassiere and adjusts her corset and other shirts so that it looks natural.

Violet and Clementine look around the room some more, but don't find anything. There is a bit of cash, but they don't take this because it would be too suspicious, and plus, when have either of them been short for cash?

They sneak back downstairs and blend into the crowd again, relieved at their luck. They smile at each other and wink at Georgia when they find her again.

"Time to go," says Violet into Georgia's ear, clamping her fingers around Georgia's wrist and pulling at her arm. Georgia looks dismayed but Violet gives her a look and she obliges, touching one of the boys' backs to let them know she's leaving.

Violet looks back at Jack but he's still not looking at her. She feels a desperation then, but ignores it, as he shrinks from her view.

They are back on the streets which are now wet and glistening with wetness and aren't crowded as usual because of the cold rain that came down a while ago.

Violet and Clementine explain everything to Georgia who bursts out laughing. "That's just fantastic," she proclaims joyfully. "When are you giving it to him?"

"Tonight," says Violet and the other two whip their heads around to look at her. "You both go back to the dorms and I'll just take a little trip to Brooklyn. I'll be back before you know it."

"Are you sure you want to do that?" says Georgia, drawing her arms around her middle. "It's pretty dangerous out on the streets."

Clementine gives her a worrisome look. "I'm not sure it's the best idea…"

"Listen, girls," says Violet with authority. "Nothing'll happen. Promise."

They aren't convinced but they won't be able to talk her out of it. So they split up in front of the school, Georgia and Clementine sneaking back in through their window and Violet making her journey out onto the glistening streets.

In Brooklyn, Spot Conlon lies awake, staring at the ceiling, listening to the sounds of the night. He is bathed in a cool sweat and his eyes are bloodshot. He can't sleep, he decides, and rolls over twitchily.

Just then, when he is resigned to spending the whole day awake, there is a tap on the window next to him, like a clawed hand out of a nightmare. His thoughts race to the worst and he curses his heart for beating so fast as he stands and looks out the window.

Violet is standing there, looking pale and pallid through the window. There are bruise-like shadows beneath her eyes and her lips stand out, red, against her face.

"What you got?" he asks as he wrenches the window open and she grins, climbing inside lithely.

"Score," she says, standing in front of him. It is warm in the room, though there is no fire blazing.

He looks her up and down. "Really?" he says suspiciously.

She grins and reaches into her shirt. Spot's eyes follow her hands, jealously. He takes a step closer and breathes onto her neck. "What you got in there?"

"The stuff of your dreams, Spot, old boy," she whispers into his ear, her lips dancing on his skin.

She extracts the green bag and presents it to him. He holds it in his palm and wraps his fingers around it; it is still warm from the home of her flesh. He opens the bag and sits down in amazement.

"Where'd you get all _this_?" he asks and she gives him an impish grin. He looks at her. "You stole _all _of it? I never knew you had it in you."

Her eyesight is bathed in burgundy red as she looks at him. His eyes look radioactively bright and there is a maroon glint in hers. She smiles back at him, her teeth pulling at her lips.

"I wouldn't say stole," she says seductively, leaning down to him and placing a hand on either side of his body. "Acquired creatively is more like it."

He chuckles to himself, and when he does she notices the points of his teeth. She is within kissing distance of him.

He pulls out a broken mirror, dirty with grime and age. He pours some of the powder onto it and extracts a shiny razorblade from his pocket, balancing the mirror shard on his knee. He divides the drug into lines and snorts it. Violet watches him hungrily.

Her lips meet his chest and then, without knowing what happened, Violet sees blood, bright red, surge from his skin. He throws back his head, either in pleasure or pain and moans.

"That's right," he sighs and she, without knowledge of it, tastes the metallic flavor of his blood. She feels a coolness on her arm and sees a glint of metal.

He slides the instrument on her flesh, and a searing pain comes to her, but for some reason it doesn't bother her. In fact, she finds, it feels magical. She looks at her arm, and at his hand, which still holds the silvery razorblade.

He brings his mouth to her skin and drinks of the lifeblood that is pooling on her body. His lips are warm and poetic, and somehow, wicked. She kisses him on the mouth, tasting her own blood.

Violet shakes herself from her memory and finds herself in her bed. Her eyes feel bruised, although they aren't, but there are little half-moons of tiredness underneath them. Her cold fingers find her arm and trace the long cut from the razorblade.

The blood surging beneath the thin membrane is hot, and the skin around the wound is warm and red. She fingers it, knowing it wasn't a dream, and picks at the laceration, the mark of the blade, and a little droplet drips out from it.

Her heart beats a little more emptily and somehow it is hollow and echoes, and suddenly she remembers something that she learned years ago, "He that eateth my flesh, and drinketh my blood, dwelleth in me and I in him."

**~Author's Note: **

**Thanks to cailin baire conlon for the review…yeah, I realize it WAS a little confusing and part of that was on purpose but I could've done it better so sorry bout that. I really just wanted to show different points of view. This chapter was more one-sided and streamlined, though, so hopefully it was better. Anywho, thanks.**

**Julianna.~**


	3. Chapter 3

November 17 1904

"What happened?" Georgia gasps as she and Violet eat breakfast in the Dining Hall, waiting for Clementine to show up. Georgia motions at Violet's arm, where the garnet wound is visible.

"Nothing," says Violet, pushing away the toast on her plate. "I tripped on the stairs."

Georgia looks at her unbelievingly, but doesn't challenge her story. Clementine finally walks in and sits down in a fury.

"Thanks for waking me up," she grumbles.

Violet doesn't say anything; it's better not to mix with Clementine in the morning.

"You want this?" Violet pushes her uneaten plate toward the other two. "I'm not hungry."

They stare at her. "You don't look so good, Vi," Georgia says. "Do you want to go to the Infirmary?"

Violet shakes her head, a strand of ebony hair curtaining her face. She tucks it behind her ear and the contrast between it and her pale skin is shocking.

"I'm just tired," Violet says. "Didn't get a lot of sleep last night." She tries to smile at the others, and luckily they accept this excuse.

Violet excuses herself from the table as a warmth spreads through her muscles and the corners of her vision are tainted with ruby. She looks around. There's got to be someone around here…

A swift of ice blonde hair disappears around a stone corner…

During her third class, Violet sits slumped in her seat, her head resting on her palm.

"Has anyone seen Miss Bourne?" asks Sister Prudence. "Is she ill?"

Nobody says anything. "Well," says the Sister. "She must be somewhere. Let us continue with our lesson…"

Something in Violet stirs, like a repressed memory, like there is something that she knows about Shay Bourne's whereabouts but she can't remember what. Violet's thoughts turn to other things and she shakes of the lost-memory feeling.

At lunch, Violet is still not hungry and doesn't touch the plate of food in front of her.

"So, how was last night?" Georgia asks her. "Did he pay you much?"

"Shh," Violet quiets her. "Yes." She smiles and tugs down on her sleeve casually.

After they finished eating, well, after the other two finished, at least, they stood and walked slowly to their class.

Sister Antionne stood at the head of the class, looking over her class list as she called out their names.

"Georgia Bovine?"

Georgia raised her hand politely. "Here."

"Shay Bourne?" Nobody responded. "Shay Bourne?" Sister Antionne called again, and still nobody moved.

"She wasn't in our last class either," piped up a small girl with mousy hair whose name had never stuck in anyone's mind.

"Well, she must be somewhere!" Sister Antionne said, annoyed. "Someone must know where she's gone!" She looked at the class accusingly before sighing exasperatedly and giving them a lecture on responsibility toward others.

Violet shifted uncomfortably in her chair. The rest of the day passed in a blur of lined paper, hall passes and gold-leaf crucifixes.

That evening, as Violet, Georgia, and Clementine rest in the Sitting room, books on their laps and fire cracking happily, a nun enters the room with a disgruntled expression.

"May I have everybody's attention, please?" she says loudly and faces turn toward her, features glowing in the firelight. "I have some quite—quite wretched news."

Everyone who didn't look up originally looks up now with interest. The nun swallows.

"As you may know, your classmate Shay Bourne was missing from her classes today." She looks around with a horrid expression. "She was found an hour ago in the downstairs bathroom." Nobody ever used those bathrooms. Sister swallowed. "Dead. Completely drained of blood."

A chill ran through the Sitting Room as little shrieks of terror and sorrow were exclaimed by those who had been close to Shay Bourne. Others, who had known her, clamp their hands over their mouths.

Clementine and Georgia turn pale and Violet blanches and looks down at her hands which now have a ruby glow about them.

"We don't know who did this," says the Sister, her shaking voice full of rage and determination. "But we know that none of you would be capable of this. Classes are suspended until we find out who is behind this. The police will be involved, and some of you may be asked for interviews."

"Sister?" asks Dovie, who is sitting, pale and motionless.

"Yes, dear?"

Dovie shakes her head, eyes filling with tears and her friends gather around her in comfort. "Never mind," she chokes out and the Sister turns to leave.

Lights out is in fifteen minutes and Violet cocks her head to the dormitories. She stands and her friends follow her into the other room. None of them say anything, they simply sit on Violet's bed and look at each other.

"What do you think happened?" Clementine says finally, in a small voice.

Violet shakes her head. "Whatever it is, it's bad. Really bad."

The others nod and Georgia sighs. "We should get some sleep, then. Take our minds off of things for a little while."

Silently, they each change and climb into their beds. The others roll over and fall asleep, warm, after a few mere minutes. But Violet stays awake, irreversibly cold, and stares at the moon.

Slowly the rest of the girls trickle in and fall asleep, but Violet doesn't move from where she sits, with her knees against her chest and her back against the headboard.

Without knowing it, she climbs from her bed, dresses, and crawls out the window. Outside, the cold air filters across her skin, lighting up the cut from the night before. Things are turning red again.

She needs to see him now. Right now, before she loses control again.

Standing stock still, Violet surveys the street, looking for any sign of movement. Seeing none, she walks along the sidewalk which seems to glow white in the moonlight. Her vision is still tainted with crimson, and each breath seems to catch and echo in her chest which is vacant.

Her eyes are changing.

When she finally reaches Spot, he is sleeping. She stands next to his bed, watching him silently and runs a warm hand up his marble-cold arm. He stirs gently and his face is innocently sleepy. This is a side of him that is hardly seen.

While she waits for him to wake up, Violet looks around the room. The other beds, which usually house Leon and the others, are mysteriously empty. She wonders where they are and chill runs the course of her spine. She can imagine.

Spot is awake now and watching her. She looks back at him and rolls up her sleeve to show him the blood-red gash running the length of her forearm. It is black around the edges. He puts two fingers to it, feeling the warmness that radiates from her skin.

"Come on," he mutters. "We'll find the others."

"Where are they?"

He winks. "Can't tell you that."

She rolls her eyes. "Look, I came hear cause I need my fix, now. I let myself slip up earlier today."

He shakes his head. "What'd ya do?"

Violet doesn't answer his question. "Your headline will be good tomorrow, let's just say that much."

He looks at her suspiciously as he fixes his suspenders and buckles his belt.

She runs a hand through her hair and tries to will back the memory of what happened that morning after breakfast. She remembers leaving the Dining Hall and then she remembers going to her first class. But she doesn't remember in between.

But Violet doesn't need to remember; she knows the truth. She killed Shay Bourne.

**~Author's Note:**

**cailin baire conlon: Haha. Thanks. And get better soon!!!**

**Please R&R, loves!**

**lovelovelove, Julianna.~**


	4. Chapter 4

**~Author's Note~**

**I'm back! And I'm really excited to be writing again, cause I really missed it. Thanks to everyone who didn't hate me for leaving you, and thanks to anyone who is reading this for the first time. I'm feeling a lot better now and writing for Newsies (especially vampire fics, hehe) feels just awesome after having been down for awhile. Anywho. Please read. **

**And if you read, please review! **

**lovelovelove, **

**Julianna.**

November 19 1904

Violet lay awake for an hour the next night, her vision flitting in and out of red blurs. She was freezing cold, huddled under the fleece blankets, but whenever she touched two fingers to her forehead it felt flush and feverish.

A sweat broke out over her neck and chest as she kicked off the covers and surveyed the dark room. Her eyes didn't take even a split-second to adjust to the darkness (although she didn't notice this) and they seemed to glow almost red at first glance. But Violet couldn't see this and her actions were becoming startlingly less _hers_ and more _primal._

She reached under her bed and pulled from it a wooden box. Placing it on her lap, the bed springs creaking, she opened it and extracted a shining silver knife encased in a leather holster, only about six inches in length, but sharp as a hawk's eye and glimmering as fresh blood.

She set this beside her, along with some cash. She replaced the box back to its hiding place and extended a pale arm down the bed to her trunk. Opening it silently she pulled out her clothes for the evening: a tight corset and a lacy top which was originally an undershirt but would serve its purpose as a shirt tonight.

Slipping these things on with a bit of tugging, Violet stood and fingered the knife carefully before sliding it, and its leather case, into the warm nestle of her brassiere. Next she slid the money in.

Stopping to peer out the window, Violet picked up the candle holder with a flickering, melting candle in it and headed toward the exit of the dormitories. Slipping through the curtain, the flame of the candle sputtering, she glided toward the end of the hall and the heavy oak door there.

Once on the street, Violet set down the candle on the steps leading to The Convent and it guttered out in seconds in the cold rain and wind around it. Not knowing exactly where she planned to go, Violet let her feet guide her and found herself heading in the direction of her half-brother's apartment.

When she arrived, she knocked on the door, her bony and pale fingers making a harsh noise on the wooden frame. Her brother's sleepy and shuffling form came to the door and she didn't say a word to him, sliding into the room.

There was no furniture except a small mattress with a blanket which still held his form.

She looked up at him, the exposed bit of her chest washed in moonlight as it splayed across her ivory skin.

"I need…" And then, reaching into her corset, not saying another word, she extracted her blade and slid it from the case, allowing the silver to glint to its full potential in the ethereal moonlit glow.

Her brother took it in his gruff hands and looked at her. She was not startled to see him with both eyes revealed, even his gruesome-looking left eye which he normally kept hidden under the eye patch. It was white, totally empty, with no iris, the strange repercussion of an accident involving a fire poker when they were younger.

He gave her a strange grin, the points of his teeth seeming longer and somehow more hazardous than they did normally. She took a step closer to him, laying a hand on his bare chest, her heart thrumming, and tilted her face upwards.

He drew a clean, swift line down his forearm, which was muscular and upon which a long vein protruded. The little droplets of blood were immediate, and beautiful, and Violet dipped her head, her lips skimming the cut, the metallic taste filling her mouth, this time with sweeter undertones.

He put a hand on her forearm now, gripping hard. She knew she would bruise purple there.

"I need more," she said suddenly, his blood still on her lips, glistening. "I need more blood." She sounded almost animalistic and gasping, a tone of terror underneath the crimson glint of her eyes.

Her teeth shone with her brother's blood as she spoke, the sharp tips annunciated.

His right arm moved again along his left, and this time the cut was deeper and wider and even more of the precious garnet liquid leaked out of it. Moaning softly, she pressed her lips to it and drank.

"Thank you." She ran her tongue along the row of bottom teeth, spiky with her increased desire.

Her head spun suddenly and she began to fall, her vision fading back to normal colors, no longer singed with redness.

She looked around her and saw the two long gashes on Blink's arm. Her knees crumbled beneath her. "What have I done?" she asked the floor.

Blink walked over to the mattress and sat down, wrapping a stray piece of fabric around his wounded arm. Her nose was almost touching the wood floor.

He chuckled. "It's normal," he said. "At first, you're going to want the blood of those who you're close to. It takes awhile before you can get away from that." He met her eyes. "It's sort of like mother's milk as a baby. It's comforting."

She nodded and ticked off in her head, stopping at—"Did you hear about what happened?" she asked meekly.

He nodded.

"Word gets around fast." Shaking his head, he said, "You'll have to be more careful. The Brooklyn boys can help you. If you want help." He grinned mischievously.

"Where are they now?" asked Violet.

"Probably Spot's." He shrugged. "Are you going to be okay for a little while?"

She nodded uncertainly and then asked, "How did this happen?"

"You came in contact with their blood, probably," he explained. "They've been this way for awhile now."

Violet nodded, something strange stirring in her. "I need to see him now, I think."

Blink's mouth opened and he looked a little frightened. "It's dangerous out there, kid. Especially at midnight."

A clock chimed somewhere, the resounding echo panging Violet's chest which felt empty. "I'll be fine." She turned to leave.

The streets were eerily empty, as Violet made her lonesome way, bound for Brooklyn. The light from the moon cast a bluish glow over the grey streets. Although it was freezing cold (it was a particularly nasty winter in New York), Violet did not shiver once. Her body was intent and focused on getting to Brooklyn as fast as possible, to reap what was hers.

When she reached Brooklyn, there was a strangeness surrounding her, like she was being followed. She turned quickly and saw nobody behind her, so she continued. The night was cold, and freezing rain was flung at her from every direction. But she neither noticed nor minded this.

Her focus was entirely on getting to Spot's apartment, as quickly as she possibly could, before she lost control again. Reaching his door, she knocked harshly as she had on her brother's.

Spot came to the door, looking tired. But Violet knew that he hadn't been to sleep; he was still in his clothes and there was a glow from inside the apartment. He moved aside to let her in, revealing three of the other Brooklyn boys; Leon, Vince, and Carmichael.

They were sitting on overturned milk crates arranged in a circle with one crate in the center, a lit candle and some playing cards laying face-down on its surface. Only, they weren't playing cards. They were, instead, looking at each other seriously; bruise-like shadows beneath their eyes.

Also on the crate they were using as a table was Spot's broken shard of mirror, Violet now noticed. The piece, which had at one time been gleaming silver, was scratched and faded. There were glimmering specs of white powder on its surface.

Leon, Vince, and Carmichael all looked up when Violet arrived, and did not ask her why she had come. It was understood somehow that she was here for food; for blood.

"We've been expecting you," Spot said in a gravelly voice, sauntering up behind Violet after shutting the door with a wooden clamp. "Come on, boys."

The others rose, and stood, bathed in moonlight. They stood tall and looked even more daunting under the guise of night which now revealed them.

The three turned toward the door and Violet began to follow, but not until Spot's arm was weaving itself around her hips and he had whispered in her ear that he would take care of her tonight.

The window was thrown wide open with a bang!, and in silence everybody climbed through it stealthily, stealing through the night like bandits—which is exactly what they were. Spot's arm was still protectively slung around Violet's body, as if she needed protection from anything. The idea of somebody trying to stop her in the state that she was in was laughable.

Being in New York City, it must be understood, there are no places to go and hide away, to perform sacred- or wicked-natured things in complete solitude. There is nowhere that one and one's followers can go to be alone, and act depravedly upon one another.

Brooklyn seemed lonesome that night, and maybe that aided in the desperation of Spot and Violet, and their friends. Or maybe, their need, their hunger was just too far gone to be ignored. Regardless, Violet and Spot were out for blood. This wasn't just about score anymore, it wasn't about sparkling white powder that made them feel unstoppable; it was about being unstoppable. The hunger was unstoppable.


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note:**

**Hey guys! Thanks to my reviewers, and sorry that it's been so long since I updated this—I had the new chapter saved on my computer for a really long time before I realized that I hadn't uploaded it yet. Whoops.!**

**Lovelovelove,**

**Julianna.**

November 20 1904

Violet's feet hit the pavement directly below Spot's apartment window, three stories up. Soon after, she heard Spot land on the cold stone sidewalk and then his arm resumed its place around her waist. She did not fight him off; she was too weak. The moon was high in the sky as cold rain whipped Violet in the face, but even through the tumult, she could see the moon, bright white, clearly as if the night had been rainless.

Violet's heart echoed in her empty chest and she felt her teeth protruding and sharpening in her mouth, the ivory white bulge beneath her lips heightening because of her increasing hunger.

Suddenly, Spot grasped Violet's upper arm, and Leon, Vince, and Carmichael halted abruptly, their backs hunched, waiting. Glancing at Spot, Violet saw that his teeth had also grown out and now extended beyond his lips, which were ruby red in the moonlight, matching the color of his pupils. Ahead of them in the darkness was the huddled figure of a homeless man taking refuge in the doorway of a building.

His arms were curled around his sides, and he had a look about him of a man who had recently been exceedingly healthy. He was broad-shouldered, and still muscular, but the cold had taken a toll on him. His face was shockingly pale, and dirty blonde stubble had grown up on his dirty and scruffy face. His skin had a bluish tint to it, helped none by the rain coming down in tumults around him. Even under the protection of the roof overtop the doorway where he slept, the man was slowly wasting away.

"Pity," muttered Violet, a seductive and velveteen musk in her voice. "The man won't make it through the night."

There was a shadow of handsomeness on his face. Violet could see the chiseled outline of his jaw, and his cheekbones; he was strikingly fetching, and Violet immediately honed in one her target, driven by the hunger and desires of her flesh like a knife in her body.

"He might have," whispered Spot, a roughness in his voice.

The other three said nothing, their breaths ragged, as Violet and Spot approached the sleeping man. Their movements were silent, each and every stalking and smooth gesture hidden in a mute sort of grace. When they reached the man, Spot and Violet stood over him for a little time, enjoying the smell of his skin. They were undeterred by the dirt caking it. The sweet but subtle smell radiating off of him was teasingly irresistible.

Violet's long fingernails found their way to the man's hair. It was short, and blonde, and she dragged her fingers through it. Even though his skin was freezing, hers was colder, as cold as the sidewalk on which the man sat. Stirring, the man looked around in alarm.

"Whaa..?" he muttered incoherently, eyelids fluttering open weakly. "Get off me."

He attempted to force away Violet's hand, but his strength was minimal, the cold having siphoned it away. He jerked, flailing behind him, but Violet caught both of his wrists in one swift move, holding them above his head.

She kneeled down beside him. "Don't fight it," she whispered into his ear, lowering his hands into his lap, enjoying the warmth of his still-muscle bound arms. She let go of them. He inched away from her, backing into the brick wall behind him.

His eyes were electric blue, and filled with terror, unwilling helplessness. Turning her head sideways, Violet put her face against the soft skin of the man's neck, inhaling his scent.

"Save some for me," Spot told her, antsy, a dark gravel still in his voice.

Violet's lips kissed the man's lips, and she grinned—or at least that's what it looked like—sinisterly, revealing her dangerous and pointed teeth. Her fangs lacerated his neck, and the man gasped in horror and resignation.

The deep crimson liquid was filling Violet's mouth with a rushing tide like an ocean; it was warm in her mouth and she swallowed before letting out a strangled sort of sound as she thirsted for more. The man was now gasping for breath, the air in his throat coming out of his mouth in guttural, strained, ragged spurt. Violet pulled away for a minute, sucking in the night air and throwing her hair back. Blood ran down her chin, a stark contrast to the whiteness of her face, neck, and chest. Her eyes were closed as her chest rose and fell in quick, feverish measures.

Spot took advantage of her momentary absence and dove onto the man, using his teeth to rip the skin away from the wounds, opening the man's neck. The man, whose face had gone completely colorless, and whose lips were pale pink as Spot drained him of the blood in his head now fell limply onto his side on the doorstep.

A gust of air was expelled from the man, and his body caved, becoming more and more white every moment. Carmichael, Leon, and Vince were now gathered around, waiting for Spot and Violet to allow them their turns. After Spot was finished drinking his fill, the warm liquid falling down his throat, burning past his intestines and extending into his very arteries, Violet bent again over the body, a sheet of ebony hair falling over her eyes and onto his now-bare chest. She drank again, allowing the sweet lifeblood travel into her veins. Stars popped in front of her eyes and her hands steadied.

Violet backed off, skirt trailing the dirty sidewalk, moonlight liquefying over the exposed part of her chest. Spot joined her, wrapping his arms around her middle. Even in her nighttime state, Violet resented Spot for being so advanced all the time. But she played along, figuring that he might give her more of what she needed. See, the girl wasn't weak or easy; instead, she knew what she wanted and she got it, whatever the price.

Spot, on the other hand, was a skilled manipulator, but was quite weak when it came to ladies. One little wink, even a glimmer of an eye or the brush of an eyelash would set him off with false expectations. As a vampire, he was needy, thirsty for blood, but still not entirely unhuman. Even as a nightcrawler, a bloodsucker, Spot was a man, and he had needs.

Violet pushed Spot off of her body, finally, knowing that he was too desperate for what she could provide him—seduction and allure—to turn his back on her if she didn't give him what he wanted. The silly fool, she thought, as she looked at him, his teeth shrinking back into the small square-ish shape that they normally took.

Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, brutishly, Vince walked over to them, followed by Leon and Carmichael. The slumped body of the doorway man lay, head lolling, on the pavement, contorted looking and completely drained of blood.

Violet tossed one last look over her shoulder at the body. His eyes were open wide, and they were still as startlingly blue as when he was burning into her face, begging for mercy. Violet felt no remorse, and believed that begging was for cowards, and continued on her way, swishing her hair behind her and erasing his handsome face from her mind.

"Wonder who'll find the sucker," Carmichael said in his husky tone.

Leon and Spot snorted in laughter, and Violet smirked haughtily turning her chin into the air. Spot, again, positioned himself so as to protect her. Suddenly, a haunting sound came in the form of the clock tower chiming. It was three o'clock in the morning.

"I've got to be back," Violet said absentmindedly.

"It's rude to eat and run," Spot replied in pinched tones.

Violet laughed, a high, tinkling, haunting laugh, and pulled out of his arms, heading in the opposite direction back to Manhattan. Spot reached her heels and kissed her once on each cheek, for which she stood still before turning from him, her hair flying behind her and a whiff of her fragrance being blown back into Spot's direction. She did not look back, but Spot watched her go, almost hungrily.

Lying in bed, sleeplessly, that night, Violet stared at the red velvet top of her four poster bed. Her arms were stretched directly at her sides and there was one other thing, which was very disturbing,

which she did not notice,

as often we don't;

when Violet finally fell asleep, there was no heartbeat resounding in her chest.


	6. Chapter 6

Early morning light trickled through the curtained windows as Violet was awoken the next morning. Somebody was shaking her arm violently and she whipped out of their grasp, her flying fist accidentally making contact with someone's body.

"Ow," gasped Georgia, recoiling, and through her narrow slits of eyes, Violet saw her best friend draw back in pain, a red mark beginning to show on her forearm.

"Sorry, dear," Violet mumbled, throwing off the covers of her bed and surreptitiously pulling down the sleeve of her nightgown to conceal the long hot gash on her arm.

"You're stronger than you know," Georgia joked, and Violet laughed half-heartedly, trudging off to the wash basin, her feet cold on the stone floor.

Splashing water onto her face, it occurred to Violet what one of the Sisters had said the night previous: that there would be no more classes until they found Shay's killer.

Looking at herself in the dirty looking glass, Violet turned, her eyes jewel-bright but not red, her teeth their normal size and shape, and walked back into the dormitory. It was near empty. Nobody really wanted to be inside the eerily dark room after last night's revelation. The only people left were Dovie and Nora, two of Shay Bourne's former friends. They were sitting on Nora's hard bed, arms wrapped around eachother, embalmed in grief.

A few miles away, Spot Conlon sits awake in his apartment, doing line after line of cocaine, seeing how far he can go. His hands shake and sweat so badly that he can barely control the rusty razorblade clasped in his fingers. Giving up, he lays back on the bed, jittery, and stares at the ceiling. There is a large water stain there and he examines it as his head spins.

Kid Blink is just now going to bed for the evening, having been out most of the night. He wraps a thin blanket around his shoulders, lays with his chest flat against the mattress and drifts into an uneasy sleep, tinged with blood and crystals and memories.

Violet's back disappears out of the wooden doorway of the dormitory, and Nora turns to Dovie. Dovie's eyes are puffy and red-rimmed.

"Who do you think it was?" Nora murmurs.

"Violet?"

Nora looks surprised. "You really think she'd be up to that? I mean, everyone knows what she's like, but…"

Dovie raises her eyebrows, shakes her head, heaves a heavy sigh. She doesn't know what she thinks. "They were giving each other the eye the night before it happened…"

"So what do we do? Tell Mother Clarence?" Nora looks at Dovie fearfully, and Dovie looks back, determined, her lip trembling.

"It's the least we could do," she manages.

A heavy wooden door shuts behind Violet as she enters Mother Clarence's office. The walls are simple white plaster, and there is various Catholic paraphernalia lining the walls and windows. A statue of the Madonna looms down at Violet as she slips into the seat across from Mother Clarence, after curtsying.

"Good morning, Mother Clarence," Violet said politely.

"Good morning," said Mother Clarence. "I suppose you know why you are here?"

She took off her spectacles laid them down beside her hands, which she proceeded to fold in front of her. Violet cannot help but notice how tired Mother looked at this moment.

"Not really, ma'am, no," Violet says quietly.

Mother's eyebrows shoot up. "Is that so?" she said dryly. "There are rumors, Miss Lourdes, that you and the late Shay Bourne were not, ah, the greatest of friends."

Thinking fast, Violet sniffed and looked down at her lap. She began to cry.

"What is it, Miss Lourdes?"

"It's just that I…Oh! It's just so awful!" she wailed.

"What is?"

"Her—Shay," Violet stuttered out. "I never knew her. It's…it's true that we were never friends. Everyone always said that we…we…hated eachother—but, oh!"

"My dear, calm yourself," Mother Clarence said reproachfully. "It's simply not tactful to…lose control of your emotions, child…"

Violet took a deep breath and looked up at Mother Clarence furtively. "I—I always regretted not getting to know her. She seemed such a nice girl—and beautiful—and…and—so popular…"

"So you're saying that you had no hatred—no, ah, dislike, anger toward Miss Bourne?"

Violet sobbed even harder, burying her face in her skirt. "N-No! Of course not." She heaved. "I can barely stand it, Mother Clarence, it's just so—so awful!" Violet dissolved into a fresh wave of tears.

"Calm yourself, my dear!" Mother Clarence snapped, thrusting a handkerchief across her desk to Violet.

Violet picked it up and gingerly wiped her face, taking deep breaths and sniffing sadly for effect.

"I'm sorry," she mumbled, looking down at her lap.

"You may go," said Mother Clarence, waving her away. "Please learn to contain yourself."

Violet nodded silently and stood up, the wooden legs of her chair squealing on the thick oak floor. She pushed open the door and walked out into the corridor, her eyes rimmed with red because of all her crying.

The corridor was empty. There was hard gray stone on both the floor and the walls, sometimes culminating in high, elegantly-peaked windows. Violet strode over to one of the windows. The ledge was as high as her chin, and she laid her hands on it.

Thick, bubbled glass lined the window with great iron-cast bars running up and down it. The window was dirty, and the glass was so thick that it was hard to see outside. The streets below were eerily empty, Violet saw through her blurred vision.

Turning, Violet walked slowly into the empty classroom opposite the window where she previously stood. There were fifty student desks inside it. Here, the walls and floor were also made of thick, daunting gray stone.

Violet heard a small cough behind her. Whipping around, she was faced with Sister Frances, one of her teachers.

Sister Frances' eyebrows were raised and her lips were pursed.

"May I help you, madam?" she asked Violet.

"No, ma'am." Violet curtseyed politely. "I was just…thinking."

"Well," said the Sister tersely. "I daresay you ought to be doing it somewhere else."

.


End file.
